


Now and Then

by ClaraAeri



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, Romance, Some mature themes but nothing explicit/graphic, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraAeri/pseuds/ClaraAeri
Summary: Snap shots that are an exploration of another story I've written from a different point of view (Roots). Does require context to be fully understood!Her hand grazes the area next to her. It’s an open invitation. If he stays where he is, she will leave him in peace from that point forth. But, if he comes forward, she will speak her mind.The choice is his.Will he take it? It's always quite the coin toss.There’s silence. Heavy, oppressive, unbearable silence. A second that lasts a year.Then, grass shifts, he walks towards her, and Zelda starts to think that foolish boy has no desire to be left in peace.
Relationships: Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Revali & Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Urbosa & Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 126
Collections: Roots and Branches





	1. The Rotten Apple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Hi, this wasn't supposed to happen but I'm busy planning out the newer chapters of Roots and got obsessed with another idea so here we are
> 
> 2\. Since this is based on my other work Roots, if you read this without at least finishing chapter 9 of that one then this first(??) chapter will confuse you lolol
> 
> 3\. This is large in part an experiment so I apologize for this weird writing style haha

She’s standing outside the dining hall in a black hood, peeking around the entrance along the stone ramps. Fingers graze the rough stone of the doorway. Out of sight, out of mind, she thinks. Ruminates. It’s something she does often: hiding in corners of the castle where few can see her so she may observe without interruption. 

Zelda’s presence is a sobering thing for all of the castle’s residents. Laughter dies when she enters a room, gazes are downcast, and a weight is there- a tension which never seems to dissipate until she is gone. This is especially so near the soldiers’ dwellings.

Out of sight, out of mind. She thinks. She hurts.

It’s dark outside, and it is a time when soldiers are given free rein of the dining halls for their evening meals- picking at whatever their castle’s nobility and privileged leave behind from their own dinners. Zelda watches them often, curious as her attention flits from men conversing by the fireplace and others throwing food across the table. It’s a strange and… intrusive habit, she knows, but in a sense she lives vicariously through their rowdy partying.

Their voices mingle and echo loudly into the open air. One hundred of them, maybe. She isn’t sure how many. The air is dense with the scent of meats cooking, spices, and burning wood from the fireplace.

He’s there, too.

He refuses to join the earlier meals. Zelda’s father invites him often, but he keeps himself busy with monsters or other duties. Despite the rolling of his eyes, her father doesn’t protest; he’d rather the boy do something productive than sit and eat truffles alongside the cathedral’s bishops. He isn’t one for conversation anyway. Not anymore, at least.

However, she knows it's a lie. Despite claiming that he's preoccupied or simply isn’t hungry, he always shows up alongside the other soldiers, after all: a head of messy hair amidst all the mania. She can see his presence has a similar, warying effect on those around him- but unlike hers it doesn’t last. They know him too well. They’ve known him for a long time as a peer, a friend, perhaps.

At a glance, he doesn’t stand out like her; she’s a sore thumb in all her blues and absurdly bright yellows. But him: dull colors. No armor tonight. Just another bobbing figure in the crowd.

Zelda smothers the jealousy as best she can.

Though, her curiosity is not as easily snuffed out. She monitors him, following him with her eyes as he wanders and steals bits of food from men who aren’t looking. Curt. Teasing. Playful. Sticky fingers. That’s what he is when none like her are looking.

Hardly traits befitting a hero, really. Why is he one, then? She's intrigued by unravelling whatever the logic is behind his existence. His demeanor. His favor. Perhaps if she can make sense of him she can make sense of herself, as well.

Link- _Goddess,_ she hates his name- seems more comfortable there than anywhere else in the castle; his gaze isn’t so neutral. There’s more thoughts there in his head, she can tell. Something lively is drawn out, just barely breaching the surface as he converses with two young men.

He reminds Zelda of a glass half full in the presence of his fellow soldiers. Everywhere else: empty.

For a moment, her eyes travel the length of that room, finding amusement in a set of men trying to figure out how to retrieve a halberd they accidentally tossed into a chandelier. Some are standing on the table, complaining while others laugh as they jokingly try to leap up to grab it.

Apparently, none of them are observant enough to see the lever controlling its chains in the corner of the room. Maybe they’re too drunk.

Someone yells at that boy she's shamelessly stalking, pleading. His head snaps over and she loses sight of his face. It’s amusing in itself to see Hylia’s Champion leap on top of the dining table: placing his dirty boots in the very same spot her father eats his precious steak on.

Perhaps she should be offended, but remembering the scolding she received from her father six hours earlier, she relishes in it.

A man points, he glances up, bends his knees, and leaps high enough to grab that spear. They cheer, and when that soldier extends his hand to ask for his weapon back, the boy smirks and walks off with it. There’s cursing. More laughter. The other man puts his hands up in a relenting manner and hops off the table as well.

A second later, he fumbles to catch the spear when it's sent flying back to him.

Zelda tries to suppress a grin. It’s endearing, watching them all get along so well. It reminds her too much of the Sheikah camps, and a bittersweet sensation pinches in her chest. Goddess, she misses them. She wishes Purah was there in that room, shouting at Robbie over the chaos, throwing a pen instead of food. Perhaps a laser or two firing somewhere.

The floor is in her sights now. Dirty stone at her feet. A frown tugs at her lips, and the bitterness begins to win out. Sighing, she looks at the crowd once more, deciding it may be best to move on to her next stop-

Blue eyes are scrutinizing her and she's struck by lightning.

Link sits utterly motionless on his bench, staring at her as if she’s an intruder. A trespasser. Her heart’s in her throat, the beat of it in her ears. Shame flares up her neck into her face, and Zelda backs away, fleeing into the darkness like a frightened animal.

Ten minutes later, she's perched next to a snoring guard. Jamie he’s called. He always falls asleep thirty minutes before nine at night, and she often sits next to him on the castle walls, brooding.

There’s little chance any of her guards have noticed she’s escaped from her room. But if they have, why would they search where a guard is already posted? Through that unwitting accomplice of hers, she hides in plain sight.

It’s near the Northwest end of the castle, far, far from the dining hall, and far, far from the source of her nervousness that's taking its time ebbing away. It’s high above the entrance to her cave, though she doesn't plan on descending that night; she feels more inclined to explore rather than work on her projects. Her mind is swimming, after all. Unfocused. She saw too many things that reminded her of too many problems throughout the day.

There was a new shipment of flowers that morning. A funeral procession in the cathedral graveyard below the castle. A new prayer tutor assigned her. And then Link, catching sight of her when the last thing she wanted was to be seen.

Is he going to tell on her? She doubts he will. The boy tends to mind his own business all too well these days.

The wind is strong. The cape of her hood lifts off her shoulders, rippling in the breeze like the flags above her. The Slate lies nestled her lap. The power isn’t on, but she taps at it like it's some sort of instrument- a piano as she thinks.

There's numbers behind her eyes. Screws and bolts swiveling into place. It’s a new idea: how to improve the mobility of Guardian Stalkers. Something tells her she should focus more on the ligature of their legs. She has a theory that something is wound too tight for them to reach their full potential in speed.

Abstract as it is, it’s an instinct she'll follow. It always leads somewhere, though she doesn’t know why or how.

Purah says her mind works strangely. The woman claims that she’s a prodigy when it comes to those machines, and it feels arrogant of her, but Zelda can’t refute that. Those Guardians click perfectly in her mind, and she often wonders if she has more in common with those machines than actual people- cognitively. Operationally.

She understands them and they understand her. It’s a pleasant feeling. A relief, too.

Feeling motivated, Zelda stands and begins to slide down a ladder to the paths below. She does, however, pitch a pebble at Jamie. It clacks against his armor, and he startles awake. Good, she affirms. He’s had a long enough break- it's time for the both of them get back to work.

The moon shines dim that night, and so a hunk of luminous stone lays at the table's center to provide light as she reads. Her cheek presses in her hand. She flips through reports in the library- the latest ones delivered to the castle by researchers in the royal tech labs. Some are interesting. Most are reiterations of what she already knows.

They’re going to run a firing test? Seventy-eight Guardians? _Goddess,_ Zelda wishes she could be there.

She’s humming, getting lost in her thoughts. Writing, scribbling away. The scratch of her pen is the only noise until the wind rises, howling like wolves outside the windows.

Without warning, an empty blue stare flashes behind her eyes, and she drops her pen. Eyes shut tight, her brow furrowing as she tries to block out the image, but it only makes it worse.

His stare, hollowed out like _hers._

Lifeless like her mother’s in that dark room.

She hates it. Vehemently. Zelda takes a bottle of ink, sticking her nose over it and trying to focus on a scent that is nothing like swift violets. It doesn’t work. She sets it down roughly enough for ink to splatter over the splintered wood.

That stone is as green as her dead mother’s eyes, so she swats it away out of sight. It clatters off somewhere far.

But she’s left in darkness. She hates the dark. She hates it.

Her head lowers as her hands tug at her hair. Painful, but distracting.

It’s all she can do, though, isn’t it? Linger in the shadows. Somehow, the days feel darker than the nights: everyone distant, their smiles subdued around her. She can only catch glimpses of cheer, of life when no one knows she’s around.

Zelda can only see him laugh- see the boy she met in the caves- when he isn’t aware of her presence. That night, he was the only one who didn’t look at her like everyone else did. That night, his gaze calmed her. The color had been stuck in her head for days and days and days.

The memory of him is too clear.

His lips were parted with wonder as he stood in a shower of fluttering paper, wind messing his hair as her Skywatcher hovered above them. She remembered him leaning in, whispering about secret games to her. And then he was on the road below looking up at her as she climbed that ladder, grinning. Princess, he called her. Like Mipha. Like a friend. Warm. Tone gentle.

Though, he was still doleful. Smiling appeared to take effort for him. There was a weight on his shoulders that she couldn’t place, and it excited her, somehow- the discovery that there was someone in this castle who she could relate to.

It was silly, the way she’d searched for him for so long after that. She’d scanned the ramparts, stuck her head into the barracks, and yet he was nowhere. Gone- and Zelda wondered if she’d encountered a phantom.

 _Pathetic girl,_ she thinks to herself. Stupid girl for being so desperate for companionship. She has no right to feel betrayed. He owed her nothing. He humored her. Pitied her. He wasn’t interested in the slightest. In her or her Guardians.

The boy she met doesn’t exist anywhere other than her head. That much became clear when she was called to the sanctum and he hadn’t even deigned to look at her, deciding the wall was more interesting than the Goddess-forsaken girl below him.

No one knows this secret of hers- this girlish pash- but she's still embarrassed. It’s been four months. How is she not over this? At this point, she's more frustrated with herself than the Goddess.

She regrets choosing blue for the Champions’ colors. She hates it now.

Her face is in her hands and she’s kicking her legs making a frustrated noise that comes out muffled in her palms. Zelda’s hair spills everywhere, unbraided. The chair groans when she leans back and blows the stray hair out of her face. It's not very effective.

Dust floats amidst beams of moonlight. Wood creaks against the storms rolling in from the South. Windows rattle. The roof's in her sights; tall bookshelves sit on the edge of her vision, looming. Blurry. She’s tired, she realizes, and her head lolls to the side. The clock claims it's an hour before midnight. Sleep calls, but it's drowned out by the noise in her head. Her mind buzzes with ideas enough that she can't ignore it. So, she gives in to that itching temptation to pilfer a few parts from the castle Sentries for her projects.

(The Sheikah directors know this. Zelda steals, they replace, and it's the way Purah assists her in smuggling in the parts she needs for her own experiments. Although, they aren’t exactly aware that what she is experimenting with are lasers and what Purah so eloquently calls _‘kill mode’._ Somehow, it'd caught on to the point that Zelda doubts anybody even remembers the actual term for it anymore.)

Hurriedly, she cleans up after herself. Papers sift, books stack, and scrolls are tucked away in her satchel. A feather spirals around the edge of an ink jar when she tosses it back in, and she, too, spins to begin the trek to the courtyard.

However, her hair hasn’t even settled from the motion before lightning strikes her a second time that night. He’s here, standing four- five feet away at the edge of the aisles.

There’s a stone in his hand. The light emanating from it leaves him drenched in a lurid green. He’s inspecting it with intensity as if he isn’t sure what to do with it. After what seems like an eternity, his eyes lift to inspect her with the same severity. She withers, and her mouth opens- but there's suddenly rough, glass-like edges between her fingers. He passed the stone to ehr at some point, yet she doesn’t even remember taking it.

It’s not surprising; Zelda had been too busy wondering how long he’s been there. Had he watched her the entire time as she threw some quiet tantrum at her table? Wonderful! She can tuck that right on top of the mountain-sized pile of small embarrassments that haunt her at night.

When she looks up at him again, she does so like he's an intruder. A trespasser.

Whatever passes over his face, she can’t identify. He backs away, and she suspects he’s going to turn tail and run just as she did, yet he stops. Hands are behind his back now: his spine straight, etiquette abiding. There’s something expectant in the set of his shoulders- in the way his eyes remain on her.

“What- what is it?” she asks. 

He turns his face away in a deliberating manner. Will he bother to speak to her? It’s always quite the coin toss, and she can only imagine the frustration he feels whenever someone asks a question that can’t be answered by the movement of his head. He takes too long, and during his silence, she evaluates him. It’s for all the brevity of four seconds, but she's analytical: picking his appearance apart as quickly as she does machinery. Her eyes are everywhere, anywhere other than his face.

No armor. A brown shirt. Cotton. That accursed sword at his back. Its leather strap tighter than necessary. His pants are cotton, too. Boots the same as before. Scuffed. It’s odd; he wears nicer clothes than this around the castle. Her father makes him.

His hair is messier than usual- barely pulled back. It looks cowlicked. The result of laying against a pillow.

Was he in bed? Are those pajamas? What's he doing, running around the castle in pajamas? He’s an early riser she’s noticed. He’s never up this late. He doesn’t read, either. What’s he doing in the _library?_ What's he here for? Did he know she'd be here?

It’s his voice that stops her barrelling train of thought.

“...It’s late, Your Highness.”

His words startle her somewhat. She hears his voice so little that she always forgets the sound of it; it’s rougher- deeper and harsher than his long lashes or feminal eyes would suggest.

“What of it?” she questions.

His face is still slightly turned when his eyes slide towards her- his chin raised and his head tilted away from her. It almost seems like he’s looking down on her, but there’s something about it that makes her think otherwise. Maybe it’s the barest knit of his brow that makes her think it’s worry. She casts the idea away, flinging it to the deepest recesses of her mind. It’s more likely that particular conclusion is one tainted by her foolish crush.

There’s silence again.

"...You looked-" he hesitates to speak.

“Are you going to tattle?” she presses when it becomes clear he's not going to finish. She’s doubting any and all knowledge she has of his behavior. She always does.

To her surprise, it’s a sigh that escapes him. His eyes are shut, and the furrowing of his brow grows larger. He shakes his head in response.

Her patience thins as she tries once more to rake his voice out of him. “Then what are you _here_ for?”

His eyes open, but they’re focused on the floor, refusing to look at her. He shakes his head again. Just barely, he shrugs as if he hasn’t a clue himself.

Goddess, this is awkward.

Zelda wants answers regarding whatever he’s loitering in front of her for, but the way his mouth presses into a thin line tells her that he’s reached his limit for that night- what with uttering an astonishing number of six words.

“Well,” she drawls as she tucks the stone into her bag, “this is a lovely chat, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t even scowl at that. There’s not a single thought in his head, she’s sure.

Civility. She tries to summon it as best she can, but she can’t even muster a proper goodbye before she steps away and trots up the stairs.

It’s not her problem if he won’t communicate, she reminds herself. She tries to focus on it, but her steps slow as she climbs the flight of stairs leading out. Inevitably, she comes to a halt. She’s curious. Too curious. It's a string tugging her attention and pulling her gaze back to the wide space she’d been standing in.

Link is gone.

Zelda looks, searches for him to no avail. She frowns, perplexed, and wonders if she’d encountered a phantom yet again. 

  


* * *

  


The insides of the Beasts are dark. They close it off whenever she goes in to pray: nothing but the flickering of blue flame to be seen. Her eyes are closed, hands clasped together, neck bent backwards as she thinks skyward. 

It’s a droning prayer that's recited in her head. One that she had been forced to memorize by the time she was six years old. It doesn’t feel natural, but she thinks it’s best to stick to it. The thoughts that feel natural are vindictive ones, after all. Rude. Their wording is a little too curt to be used when conversing with the Goddess.

Sometimes she’ll change it up, try different things. Please this, please that. Oh, have pity. A humble servant. Often, her pleas are genuine. But other times they are not. This is one of those times, and so she cuts her losses and lets her hands fall. Her fingers graze slate.

There’s a sigh that escapes her. It's inaudible, fluttering like the ethereal firelight at the edge of her vision. 

“Done so soon, Your Highness?”

Revali.

She’d forgotten he was there, but it doesn’t startle her. Zelda takes a moment to listen to the sound of a steady engine thrumming off the walls before she answers- making light of yet another wasted morning.

“I like to give the Goddess a day off from hearing my complaining here and there, you see. I imagine it gets quite tiresome.”

There’s a mirthful scoff that escapes him. Talons tap. Even in the dark she can make out the scowl upon his face. Zelda’s eyes dart from top to bottom. Crossed wings. A sharp glare directed to nothing at all.

Impatience? Not quite. Her gaze slides over to the doors which Revali has yet to open. She thinks, maybe, he wants to stay in the dark. Her mind wanders to hours before. Revali had caught sight of her and her guard for that day heading off to Medoh. They couldn’t even make it to the landing before he barreled over and practically begged to be the one to escort her.

Of course, he’d tried to hide how desperate he was to flee from the merriment of Rito Village, but Zelda could sniff out false bravado as easily as she could fruitcake. They were both favorites of hers, after all.

“...Are you giving them all a day off, too?” she questions, testing the waters.

He’s easier to read than her personal guard. Revali’s eyes shoot towards hers, bothered, and he huffs. With the swipe of his wing, the doors along the Beast open fast, and wind rushes, flows, and floods through the space. The torches are extinguished in a hiss. Zelda squints her eyes against the sudden brightness, a hand up to shield her own face from her thrashing hair.

He saunters past, gazing out over one of the balconies. Brooding. The tapping of his foot gradually comes to a halt as he calms from whatever emotion her question had ignited in him. Revali sighs like she did. Zelda continues to scrutinize him.

…Minding her own business really doesn’t come easily to her, does it?

(Past feathers tossing in the chilly wind, she sees Rito Village below. Bright colors, drifting fabrics visible even from their altitude. She knows the day that's being celebrated; as the princess, she was taught the holidays of all cultures within Hyrule by the nuns of the Plateau. Princesses are so often ambassadors, after all. A Hyrulean tradition. If she weren’t so inept when it came to awakening holy powers that would be her primary role. Instead, Impa compensates.)

Her heels clack against slate as she meanders onto the balcony.

“I.. admit I don’t like it,” she says, merely staring down alongside him.

That seems to intrigue him. It’s not surprising; he’s the curious type like her. Revali turns to her a little more, analyzing her as well. She wonders if he’s as methodical as her when it comes to picking people apart- if he forgets to include humanity in the mathematics of it all.

No, she thinks. He doesn’t. He’s merely pessimistic: seeing the worse sides of people more clearly than the better.

There’s a glint of amusement in his eye when he turns his attention back to all the fanfare. “I can imagine, Your Highness.”

“Yes…” It’s clear as day she doesn’t get along with her father. Her arms draw around herself, providing self comfort. “I fear I don’t get along well with my mother’s memory, either.”

“...I can imagine,” he repeats, this time without amusement.

Zelda’s hands are wringing together. Her head shakes. She’s disappointed in herself, in the misplaced resentment. The woman died for her, didn’t she? And yet here she is, ungrateful. Grudging. Jealous of the woman who gave birth to her.

No wonder the Goddess hates her; a thing as foul as she is doesn’t deserve a single moment of Her time, she’s sure. It’s due punishment: being spit on by the Goddess. Maybe even her mother looks down on her daughter with distaste.

Whatever expression she's wearing bothers Revali so much that he actually tries to pull her out of her own head, confessing, “I never met mine. I wandered into the village when I could barely talk. No one knows where or _who_ I came from.”

(Arrogant and brash as Revali is, Zelda finds herself strangely appreciative of it; his pride makes him far more likely to engage in conversation- speak his mind. He's less subdued than most around her, and, despite only having interacted with him less then ten times, he regards her nearly as casually as the rest of the Champions.)

She blinks. A question slips past before she can weigh its propriety, “Does it feel strange to resent people you’ve never met?”

The Rito looks uncomfortable. Shifting. Zelda knows she hit yet another nerve, and she opens her mouth to recant it, yet he speaks openly, “Yes, Your Highness… sometimes, I try to convince myself they died protecting me, or something _dramatic_ like that just to make myself feel important…” a scornful, harsh laugh escapes him. “Pitiful, isn’t it?”

Yes. Better than being abandoned, isn’t it?

There’s a small lump in her throat. Ungrateful. She’s ungrateful. What would he give to have a mother like hers?

“Not at all,” she assures him, squeezing her eyes shut. Her voice is unsteady as she pivots the subject. “I am surprised you’re admitting all this to me... I thought you far from the type.”

Revali faces her. She imagines if he were Hylian, his face would be red with embarrassment. “I _am,_ Your Highness,” he agrees, but looks at her with a kind of sympathy. “...You remind me too much of myself, that’s all.”

With that, his beak turns sharply away.

“What do you mean?” she presses, head tilting. She’s on her toes, crowding him, and the Rito clearly regrets indulging her curiosity.

“That, Your Highness, I would like to keep a secret.”

Zelda frowns at that. He does not relent. 

_“Well,”_ she remarks with some fatigue, “this was a very interesting conversation, thank you. I’m happy to understand you better.”

There's a nod, and a second later he clears his throat. “...I would ask your discretion regarding what I’ve told you, Your Highness.”

She waves with a placating grin as she strikes a deal, “I would ask the same of you.”

There are then two nods exchanged. Revali opens his beak, yet stops short. He squints as he takes a step closer to the railing.

“What… _what_ is that knight of yours _doing?”_

Zelda quickly turns and pokes her head out in the same manner as her feathered companion. He’s staring at the earth near the stables. Her vision isn’t as good, and she glances at him to search for answers. He seems too confused to provide clarification. Taking matters into her own hands, she grabs her Slate and lifts it to her face.

It zooms in.

Purah, lounging on a rock. Link, throwing balls of ice at pine trees.

Slowly, she drops the thing from her face. Her lip curls. “Goddess… is he destroying a forest?”

Revali leans back, practically groaning with exasperation. “I knew I saw that idiot lift a wand from those Wizzrobes,” he mutters to himself.

“Of _course_ he would.” She’s looking back through her Slate. A tree falls and shatters to pieces. There’s a head of white hair approaching from the South. Impa; he’s about to be in terrible trouble. Zelda grins, teeth showing. “He has sticky fingers.”

“My, my. A thief and a liar, too? Hardly seems _heroic_ to me,” he snips.

That catches her attention. Zelda stares, expecting him to elaborate. Revali suddenly appears taken aback. He’s quiet. Mulling. Evaluating. His beak opens, yet he stops- again.

“...Interesting,” that mumble of his is almost inaudible.

“What- what is it?”

“Nothing, Your Highness. Just another spat.”

A _lie._ She can sniff those out, too.

Her hands are on her hips. He does not relent- _again_ \- and she has a feeling even if she ordered him to blab whatever he’s hiding, he’d refuse. Ridiculous. No one ever listens to her orders. Is she not intimidating enough? It’s her round eyes, she’s sure. Round cheeks like a chipmunk.

Zelda squeezes her own cheeks in frustration and Revali's nothing but confused. She waves off both his bafflement and their talking at once, stating, “I believe I’ve done enough praying for today. Would you be so kind as to take me on a trip around Medoh? I’d like some pictures before we depart.”

Maybe snap a picture of Impa scolding that _‘knight of hers’._

Revali bows dramatically as he extends a wing. Zelda smiles contentedly before clambering onto the railing and leaping off as that Champion dives after her. 

  


* * *

  


The ladder creaks. Dust drifts off the wood as she climbs, her movements quick. One bar after the other. Her bag rustles loudly as she crawls onto the platform. Wind catches her hair when she looks up, lifting it off her back. Flags ripple above her. A vivid red: even in the night.

The land is vast. Zelda ignores the cold as she sits cross-legged: staring over the expanse. She breathes deeply. What is it with the desert, she wonders, and carrying the scent of iron and herbs?

She hasn’t a clue. Thus, she merely takes out her Slate. A picture snaps. Then two. It turns to Naboris: marching, sending vibrations that rattle even the lookout post she’s hiding on. 

Quite frankly, she didn’t intend to take this impromptu trip, but she was struck with the sudden desire not to be near him, and therefore walked right back into Gerudo Town. It was a narrow escape; he’d been there arguing with one of the guards when she dove behind a boulder and skittered off like a lizard.

Impulse. She’s much more impulsive in the desert, she thinks. Temperamental. Zelda's sure once dawn comes and her head is right on her shoulders she’ll feel a tinge of guilt. Not much, though. Something about his blank, condescending stare doesn’t do wonders when it comes to garnering her sympathies.

If anything, he should be relieved not to be in her presence. He clearly hates her. The thought stings, but she knows it's fair. Justified. The only thing that keeps him from sneering at her is his station, most likely.

Knees are drawn to her chest. The chill's getting to her. Why does she even need to be taken into his care at nightfall? Can’t she just stay in the town? What a ridiculous mandate by her father. There’s not a shred of sense to be found in half the things that he does.

Denying her research. Trying to tell her how to pray when he’s never done it a day in his life. Sticking her with a boy who despises her as much as she does him. What _gall._

Her fingers drum. The Slate is still on: casting a blue glow onto her face as it sits on the wood planks.

He’s her father’s favorite _dog._ She’s certain- no, she’s _positive_ \- that he’s there to keep watch on her and report back to her father. They get along swimmingly, after all. Her father has given him more attention and care than she’s received her entire life. What? Seven years she was abandoned in an abbey only to be sent off for another three? Then she comes back to see her father visiting that boy nearly everyday, praising his conduct, praising his dedication.

Revolting.

Will she ever stop feeling these things, she wonders? Jealousy. Dissatisfaction. Ugly, ugly things hardly befitting a princess.

Revali called him a thief and a liar. Little did that Rito know those two words apply better to her than they do him. 

A lump takes residence in her throat again. She swallows it down.

“Your Highness,” a chiding voice calls up to her and she scowls as it drones on, “are you quite warm up there?”

“Toasty, I’d say!” she yaps back at Biljana.

Something between a scoff and a chuckle echoes from below. Accepting the inevitable, Zelda grumbles curses, crawls on all fours to the edge, and descends. Biljana escorts her back to the palace. Urbosa tells her to return to the oasis. She will not.

“I don’t want to be near him,” she insists. “I know it’s childish, but I’m desperate for some privacy.”

The woman looks down at her, lips pressing together with a heavy sigh through her nose. “Very well...It may be best to separate you two for a while. That boy seemed awfully _testy_ himself.”

Something about _‘goons’_ is muttered. 

Zelda’s arms cross, her nose scrunching, and Urbosa sends her off to her room with a slap on the wrist. The woman is too soft on her.

She's indulged for a day, and Urbosa takes time off to explore with her. It’s a blessing.

She runs ahead of their entourage, marveling at the statues surrounding them. They stand impossibly tall: nearly as tall as Naboris. A set of curious Gerudo loom over Zelda as she pokes at strange, emblemed balls. They remind her of slate- but not quite. One glows when they kick it into a slot and a chorus of _ooh’s_ and _ahh’s_ are uttered.

They sit laughing loudly, talking freely. Urbosa’s childhood seal still barks away, wagging its tail as it swims in circles around them. Many people are starting to wonder if that animal is immortal.

Zelda digs through the sand like a stray dog, finding buried chests. She tries to pick the locks, but it never works until Urbosa merely stomps on one and it flies open. A red rupee clatters out.

They exchange an incredulous look. When Zelda offers their hard won cash to Urbosa, she runs fingers over the golden band on her forehead and waves it off humorously, laughing. She beams, and shoves it into her bag- vowing to buy them both some sweets with it next they are in town.

Moments later she’s sprinting off to the next object glittering in the distance.

Her vigor always returns during the day; and as she predicted guilt pesters her. The night really does do terrible things to her mind. Luckily, by the time twilight descends, she’s sleepy enough that she knows she’ll finally be able to sleep through the entire night.

She’s sitting, knees against her chest as she and Urbosa watch the sunset from atop Naboris.

“Tell me…” the woman says as she tosses a truffle into her mouth, “has he been rude to you?”

Him. Will anyone ever stop talking about him?

Zelda sets her chin on her knees, too tired to try and divert the subject. “I… am not sure. He talks a little more now, but... “ she shakes her head. “I still hate the way he looks at me. Like I’m insignificant. Something to be _handled.”_

 _‘You won’t let her run loose?’_ he said. Wretch.

His vacant stares also remind her too much of her mother, but there's a limit to what she will confess. Even to Urbosa.

“They made me pray until my knees bled every day after he appeared. Fasting every two days,” her voice grows bitter. More bitter as she continues. “My father adores him, too... He says he bled everyday for that sword; he says I haven’t devoted myself enough… and L-” she bites off the name before it can escape, “he told me that he doesn’t know how to live up to the expectations of Hyrule, but I- I can’t even figure out how to live up to _him-”_

Her voice cracks and she's done.

 _I’m tired,_ she whispers, burying her face into her legs.

Urbosa sits quiet, watching on as Zelda shakes her head. “It’s not his fault. I know. I _know.”_

_‘I had to bear this sword and all its downfalls because I had no choice but to.’_

He remembered the cave- the revelation had stolen her breath. For days after that it dashed it all: all her resentment. It was embarrassing how elated she’d been. Excited. Giddy. She stopped seeing her mother’s reflection in him and everything was alright. She could feel proper empathy for him, finally.

He’d taught her to cook. Participated in her stupid little experiments. He spoke more. Expressed more. He was there; she hadn’t been imagining things. The boy from the caves was _real-_

Then she laid eyes upon the desert and it all came tumbling back. The weight. The envy and everything inbetween. 

Fingers are in her hair, trailing. Comforting. 

“Little bird...” Urbosa coaxes, her voice faint. “Your father is a fool, but one that cares, I promise you…” 

The woman’s hand draws her close, tipping Zelda toward her and against her shoulder. She lays there, staring blank and tiredley into the expanse below. Though, her interest is piqued when another chuckle bubbles up from Urbosa’s chest. 

“As for that boy… well, I am fairly certain he hardly knows how to live up to _himself.”_

Sleep calls. Zelda’s eyes flutter, growing heavy. She frowns as she feels herself drifting, her limbs suddenly feeling like dead weight. It isn’t just calling- it's chasing her, it seems.

The last thing she remembers grumbling at the woman she's all too thankful for is:

“What...What is that…? A _riddle?”_

Her laughter is distant, swallowed up by nothingness. 

  


* * *

  


Running, flowers passing. A hand around her wrist. Everything a blur. Difficult to make out. Scraping steel- the sound of tearing flesh. She isn't fast enough. Legs too short, too clumsy. She’s scooped up into her mother’s arms. A cry of pain. The flash of a rapier. A pale mask falling out of view. Red and black and white.

A door slamming shut. She’s crawling, laying hands on a dying woman, pushing, pulling- confused and begging. There’s a hand over her mouth, shushing her, smearing blood across her face. Whispers that tell her not to leave. To stay. To hide. To be quiet.

She obeys. She always obeys. She’s an obedient child. A pleaser. She scares easily, always has.

Her arms are wrapped around him. His chest is wet with her tears. The floor beneath them is rough stone. He’s sturdy. A hand in her hair. The other on her back, fisted into fabric. His touch does well to ground her- return some of her senses. But the adrenaline was still there uprooting all her thoughts and cramming nightmarish images in the empty spaces left behind.

Blood seeping through a purple dress. There for so long it’d gone cold. The room was cold like the one they are huddled in now. A rapier discarded somewhere, like his sword on the stone now.

“Zelda?” he’s saying her name, trying; it’s gentle and unnerved. She says nothing, arms around him tightening.

His hand sifts farther into her hair and she's falling to pieces. She presses her face harder against his chest, squeezing her eyes shut. His words pull at her consciousness, yet they are unable to tear her out of the memories replaying themselves in her head. Their pull is stronger, after all, and the only things that come out of her mouth are quick breaths and sounds that she imagines are no different from a frightened animal.

It’s dark like that room all those years ago. But it’s closed in. Safe. She’s safe there; her mother guaranteed it. His presence guarantees it. She clings even tighter. He hisses, she thinks she’s choking him. He doesn’t stop her.

The room has windows. Not like then. It smells like herbs now. Not like mold and cobwebs then.

He’s warm. Not like her. He’s breathing. Not like her. He’s speaking. Not like her. He’s holding her. Not like her.

Nothing now is like then.

Zelda’s mind slows His tunic is blue and it fills her vision. It’s not purple or gold. It’s not red like her father wanted. It’s a calming color: like the glow of a Guardian. Good. It’s a good color. She doesn’t regret choosing it.

Her arms are growing looser. He’s breathing easier and so is she. His heartbeat is steady. She focuses on the sound, on the feeling. It’s all receding like an ocean tide. Waves calming.

Link’s hand moves, stroking her head. The action soothes her, and her hands drop, going limp against the floor behind him. Exhaustion overwhelms her; it cascades through her, and seconds later she's gone. 

  


* * *

  


It’s when night falls that Urbosa’s heels clack their way into her room. The bed sinks and she’s sitting next to her.

“How are you doing?” the woman coos, a thumb grazing her shoulder. 

Zelda looks from the high, thin window to her face. Green. Worry. A frown. There’s something mournful there, too. The incident brought more bad memories than just her own, she bets.

Her eyes close, heavy. They still feel swollen from all her crying.

“I’m better,” she says with surprising honesty. A smile pulls at her lips. It’s wilted but it’s the best she can muster. “I’m mostly tired, now.”

Urbosa looks her over, checking for any hint of deception. Her smile is the same when she goes to stand, remarking, “I’m glad to hear it… I’ll let you sleep. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, you hear me?”

Zelda’s voice warbles when she speaks up, stopping the woman in her tracks, “Wait, Urbosa- may… may I ask you something?”

The bed sinks, bouncing as she falls back down. Her head cocks. Earrings sway and jewelry glints in the candlelight. Zelda always thinks she looks like a cat: sharp glares one moment and then soft, curious eyes the next.

Her fingers wring together, nails scratching at skin. They’ll be raw by the morning, no doubt. 

“My… my mother,” her head dips as her voice trails off. “This might be a ridiculous question, but, would you tell me more about her?”

She wants to know about the woman. Flaws. Virtues. She wants to know if she shares more with her than just her eyes and face. Anything will do, even the worst parts of her.

A finger taps at Urbosa’s chin. Her leg crosses over the other, foot swaying in contemplation. “She was _loud.”_

Zelda sends the woman a pointed, albeit amused look. Her lips worm into a mischievous smile as she continues, “She’d snore while she slept and snort when she laughed. I remember her... having a passion for theatre.” Her hand starts waving as she chortles between her words, “It made her _wonderful_ to drink with; she'd get up on the table and recite soliloquies by memory the whole night.”

 _Dumb as a brick,_ Urbosa very bluntly provides. Except for when it came to plants. 

There was always a flower in her hair- leaves caught between her fingers and grass stains marring her dresses. The woman hardly knew a thing about the science of it, but somehow could grow just about any plant she laid hands on.

Her favorites were swift violets. Urbosa asked why mere weeks after they’d met as teenage girls, yet her mother merely put a finger over her lips and stated it was a secret with a wink.

By the end of it, Zelda sits cross legged on her bed, watching her surrogate mother recount memory after memory, gesturing wildly. There's a spark in her eye- a nostalgic glimmer that makes her heart melt. The joy there hurts. But, perhaps, in a pleasant way.

Bittersweet.

The longer she listens to Urbosa talk, the more the sweet wins out.

“Goddess, it’s nearly midnight,” the woman chuckles, and pats Zelda’s cheek. “You, Little Bird, should be off to bed.”

She stands. Zelda’s hands are a blur when she reaches out, grabbing Urbosa by her wrist. Her mouth opens and closes as she's stared down at. Words struggle to take shape. She isn’t sure how to best convey it all, but a portion fights its way out:

“Thank you… for-” she swallows, eyes wide and conveying sincerity as best she can, “for not leaving me alone. For not-”

 _For not hating me,_ she thinks but cannot voice.

A moment later she’s in Urbosa’s arms. The woman squeezes her, doting on her. She whispers kind things in her ear as Zelda returns the embrace in equal measure.

_I love you._

_I love you, too._

Then, just as quickly, she’s left alone in her room curled in her sheets. She lies there, processing all the things she’d learned that day- that night.

Messy. She’s messy, like her mother.

Zelda giggles, coming undone, and cries until sleep takes her yet again. 

  


* * *

  


Link has sticky fingers.

Zelda catches sight of his hand slipping into her bag, snatching away the shard of a luminous stone she’s chipped away from the Arbiter’s Grounds. It flickers green, and before he can check to see if she noticed, she looks away, continuing to speak to Biljana.

She’ll let him have it, she thinks.

She doesn’t need it.

They’re both standing in the markets hours later, a gift from Lottie in her hands.

“She’s going to become a seamstress,” she tells him as the two of them marvel at the silk. Green. Shimmering. Yellow threading that shines like gold. “She’s quite talented, don’t you think?”

Zelda glances up at him. Link’s eyes soften; she can hear tenderness in his voice as he murmurs:

“She really is.”

Blue eyes flick to hers and her heart flips.

A day later and he’s following her out of the desert. They pass the oasis. Her fingers are scratching at her wrists, anxiety twisting inside her. She glances back and it leaves as quickly as it came: his attention trained on her.

It’s fine, she thinks. She’s safe. Link’s watching her.

It’s a comfort. 

  


* * *

  


Link doesn’t bother her the way he used to, allowing all the insecurities he engendered in her to fade into the background. It’s all still there, but it’s muted: no more distracting than the sound of a babbling brook somewhere in the forest next to her. Birdsong.

She needn’t listen to it for now.

 _‘Your Highness,’_ he calls her again and again and it bothers her. The words don’t sound right, and she thinks she knows another word that may suit his tongue better.

Greedy _wench,_ she scolds herself. The boy is just trying to do his job. Leave him in peace. She’s terrorized him enough already, hasn’t she?

Yet, her mind always drags itself back to the desert. He’d said her name, hadn't he? It couldn’t have been a figment of her imagination; she remembers it too clearly. It’s a sound that hasn’t stopped echoing off the walls of her skull for weeks, and she fears it might drive her mad.

However, the words _‘Your Highness’_ don’t sound right for plenty of other reasons. Her, his superior? It doesn’t feel like it. If anyone should be given a higher title it’s him. She’s less. Worth less. Capable of less.

Zelda tells herself she will not voice these thoughts.

“Well, I realize that sounds quite ridiculous-”

But, of course, in all her monologuing she winds up blabbing it anyway.

“-we couldn’t ever be equals. You’ve always been so much more capable than me.”

_“What?”_

His voice is like gravel shifting, somewhere between angry and baffled, and she wants to tear her own hair out. Link gasps, almost inaudibly. It seems he hadn’t intended for that to slip out. The words he uses to cover up that blunder are much more passive: calm.

“I’m confused by that, Your Highness.”

Don’t say anything more, she tells herself. Shut up. Shut up-

But, of course, in all her monologuing she winds up blabbing it anyway.

She’s rambling on and on- Goddess this, Goddess that, court this, court that, and it’s when he begins to look constipated that she finally quits yapping. Without thinking, her head dips in apology, but by the time she corrects the action, Link’s blank exterior looks like a cracked window.

Like a teapot’s lid rattling against all the steam building inside it.

Zelda spouts another apology, pleads with him to forget all the embarrassing things she’d said, and sprints off. 

  


* * *

  


It’s chaotic. Lively. There’s cheer everywhere even though she’s there in that room watching. She’s just another figure on the sidelines. No one of import even in all her bright colors. 

She wants to be one of them. The dancers. The beat of drums pounds beneath her skin and slowly erodes at her common sense. There’s a cup of tea rattling on the table. The crowd’s movements are impossible to track, and yet somehow there is a pattern to it all.

Reed’s hands are fast. He bends forward, leaning into his own instrument, and he draws the bow across with rapid movements: forceful, as if he's trying to saw it in half. There’s a particularly long note, his fingers fluttering along the string as he drags his bow over them. Slower. More methodical. The sound carries even over all the other drums and strings and flutes.

Zelda doesn’t know what to focus on. There’s temptation gnawing at her. It fills her lungs and catches her breath. A flicker of light catches her eye; it bounced off the hilt of Link’s sword as his head dips, returning to his work. He’d been watching her stare at the crowd, she realizes.

She’s a creature of habit; Zelda blurts a question before she can weigh the propriety of it:

“Do you know how to dance?”

He blinks, frozen. Briefly, his eyes move to her and then to the crowd ahead. He’s properly weighing something she won’t, it appears.

“No.”

Her heart sinks along with her gaze. Well, she could just go out there herself, no? That’s ridiculous. What is she supposed to do by herself in the middle of that crowd? It’d be embarrassing.

Maybe- maybe he’d be interested, though? Zelda swallows, taking a breath or two. There’s butterflies in her stomach. Too many. She wishes she could force them out the same way she does her words.

“Would- Would you like me to teach you?!”

Her voice is _loud._ Louder than Reed’s fiddling. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Link startle before, but he flinches, lips parting. Heat flares up to her face. Goddess, she wants to find a hole to crawl in. 

Greedy, greedy _wench,_ she scolds herself again. 

Leave the poor boy in _peace,_ why don’t you?

Zelda rips her gaze from his and retreats. She prays he thinks nothing of it- continues on poking at that sword of his. He has a talent for ignoring her outbursts. It’s good. It’s better that way. One of them has to behave themselves.

There’s movement in her peripheral. Maybe he’s decided to go find food. But, Link isn’t walking, he’s setting something down, lingering. He speaks and her heart flips.

“Do you want to try, Your Highness?”

She’s staring at him. Candlelight on his face. A frown. Knit brow. Nervous. He looks nervous. Maybe he’s as nervous as she feels? It emboldens her, casting her heart into her head. Zelda tears off her hood and snatches up his wrist before either of them can back out of it.

Revali's right. He's a _liar._ The boy blatantly knows how to dance; and what's more, he doesn't even try to pretend otherwise the moment they join the crowd.

She knows Link prefers to keep his distance from people. But they’re spinning, revolving around one another, and he’s forced to keep his grip on her. It’s tighter than necessary she notices, but it’s not out of nervousness. It’s fading, after all, being replaced by something that suits him better.

Greed sparks and she’s smiling, watching him intently. Curious. What’s there? What can she catch a glimpse of? She’s seeing more of him in that moment than she’s seen in nearly a year and a half.

His hands are on her waist, lifting her. It’s when her feet touch the floor again that there’s another sharp, dipping note from Reed’s fiddle, and Zelda falls with it. Her hair grazes the floorboards as she throws an arm out, but she’s swung back to her feet as quickly as that note rises. She’s face to face with him again. There’s a smile there on Link’s face now- a laugh escaping him- and her heart’s swelling.

She’s never heard him laugh so clearly. Again. She wants to hear it again.

Zelda puts a hand near her face, posing like Revali here and there and he clearly hates it but it looks so stupid on her he can’t help himself. Link sends her a pointed look when she nearly stumbles into another person, but that lopsided grin is still there as he tugs her out of the way into his grasp.

At one point they’re close. Much closer than necessary. His breath's in her ear and she can feel laughter shaking his chest. It’s a sharp sound. Flat. It’s far from soft, but there’s something charming about it.

Zelda thinks- she feels- 

Well, she’s fairly certain she’s ruined.

Hours later she’s laying in her bed feeling drained. Her sheets tangle around her like a cocoon. There are no sounds. It’s just her thoughts, buzzing away. She leaves them unattended: letting them run their course before she bothers to try and make sense of it all.

Images flit behind her eyes. Blue. Candles. Rain and thunder. Wood groans all around her and it reminds her of the abbey; it reminds her of just who she is, and loneliness reclaims its proper place in her heart. It’d been chased away for the evening, but not the night, it seems.

What would she give to chase it away a second time? Anything, it feels like.

There’s letters scattered across the floor. She’s on her knees combing through the most recent ones, searching for comfort in the bleeding edges of ink and parchment.

Purah. Utterly nonsensical (is that a drawing of Daruk with clown paint?). Impa. Refined, courteous. Urbosa. Humorous, demanding to know if _‘that boy has tried anything stupid’._ Cherese and Robbie. Telling her about the small Guardian they found in Hebra a while back.

_Your Highness, Your Highness, Your Highness-_

Her father.

_‘Quit loitering, Zelda. You’re not out to sightsee.’_

March on. Don’t skip out on prayers. Live up to your namesake.

_Zelda, Zelda, Zelda-_

A name used to taunt her; a namesake he uses to shame her.

What would she give to hear it without ridicule? Anything, it feels like.

Her eyes slide over to the door connecting their rooms. Is he awake still? There’s no way to know. But, he could be- if he’s as shaken by it all as she was, that is. Another foolish thought, really.

A line was crossed, and it’s strange to know she wasn’t the only one to skip over it that time. It may have been guilt: a temporary, stupid little thing he did to appease her. However, the expressions he wore told her otherwise. Was she imagining things?

She can’t make sense of him completely and it irks her to no end. It’s probably for the best; Zelda's already too busy sorting through her own mess of emotions: filing, labeling, and stacking them away.

The desire to be rid of her stupid title? Well, insecurities regarding her own self-worth aside, its presence is understandable.

All people crave attention. They crave companionship. It's a simple, natural need like anything else. There’s no need for embarrassment, is there? Even the strange feelings she’s always had for the boy following her around can be chalked up to trivial, biological impulses. He’s her age, he’s present, he’s handsome. That’s all it takes, isn’t it? The recipe for a girlish crush is far from complicated.

There’s no need for drama, and she’s certain it can be ignored; she can smother that much. It won’t become a problem despite what she thought during that dance. Her? _ruined?_ Laughable. Zelda scoffs at her own reflection. Her mother's the one who has a passion for theatre- _not_ her.

As for the rest of it? Well, she thinks it’s worth a try.

Her conclusion is that a case can be presented; she concocts an argument she can put together, and, if he so chooses, he can agree or disagree.

The choice will be in Link’s hands: whether or not it's worth it to keep on with this ludicrous behavior they call _‘etiquette.’_

 _Zelda._ Again. She wants to hear it again.

Something tells her he's still awake. And so, she slips on her boots, steps over her scattered letters, and grabs a lantern. Floorboards creak. She knows he knows the sound of her footsteps. He’ll follow: he’s the curious type, like her. Even more than Revali.

The butterflies are there again, but she ignores them, letting them chase her all the way down the stairs and out the stables. Her lantern taps against a bed of rock. It rattles when she lets the handle fall.

The air is crisp. Charged. There’s always some kind of energy thrumming in the forests after a storm, and the sky above still has yet to settle. The wind pushes and pulls the tree tops above. Rain still clinging to the leaves drips onto her, splattering on stone. It’s quiet- so quiet she can hear the flame crackling away inside her lantern.

Blue. She sees blue. Glowing. Pulsing in the night right alongside clusters of fireflies.

There’s something tugging at the back of her mind, and she knows who's on the other end of that string.

“I figured you’d be here.”

Link’s response is to huff. “You said you wouldn’t run away anymore.”

Her lips pull into a smile, though it's more sardonic than amused. It’s quite the opposite of what he thinks, isn’t it?

“You think this is me running? I’m just a stone’s throw away, Link.”

Her hand grazes the area next to her. It’s an open invitation. If he stays where he is, she will leave him in peace from that point forth. But, if he comes forward, she will speak her mind.

The choice is his.

Will he take it? It’s always quite the coin toss.

There’s silence. Heavy, oppressive, unbearable silence. A second that lasts a year.

Then, grass shifts, he walks towards her, and Zelda starts to think that foolish boy has no desire to be left in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4\. I'm not sure if I'll continue this. It depends on demand I guess lol. So if anyone's interested let me know!
> 
> 5\. Thanks for reading!!!


	2. The Pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Would you believe me if I said that I had this draft sitting in my files for about four months and forgot about it?  
> 2\. This chapter covers a bit of Akkala and the very end of Death Mountain. As long as you're up to chapter 13 of Roots, you should be good!  
> 3\. This is turning out to be a lot of fun. It's always been a little disappointing not to be able to give glimpses into the things going on in the background that Link never got to witness, so getting to show these moments is a little cathartic. Especially as an impulsive fanfic writer who has just been abusing this story as a creative outlet at this point.  
> 4\. Hope this one's enjoyable!

Zelda does not remember her mother’s murder quite as well as she remembers the way her father had held her afterwards. 

His arms were of iron and steel. Fevered thanks to the Goddess for her safety were a rhythmic repetition against her hair. Tears from the both of them as he eased her terror and she his grief. She’d huddled into him, allowing herself to be cradled as he carried her away from that wretched shed.

 _‘My darling,’_ he’d whispered in a voice raw and fraught with hurt. _‘I’m so sorry.’_

He blamed himself just as much as Zelda blamed herself.

This she knew and this hurt her terribly.

A hand laid over her head, shielding her from the world around her. And shield her, he did.

Strangers loomed over her for days after, never once leaving her side. Black and red shadows always orbiting her father now tethered to his daughter. One man held a gaze of vivid blue: some kind of expression she couldn’t identify in all her daze. Glazed over, a darkness lurking behind that bright color. A knit brow. A grief similar to what she’d seen in her father’s face.

Looking back, she still couldn’t understand it.

Just as she couldn’t understand why she didn’t even run after her father as he left. 

Her father’s back was the last image of him she would have in her possession for seven more years. Set shoulders. A grip on his horse’s reins so tight the leather squealed and his knuckles turned white. It was the silhouette of a man after prey.

She was always too obedient. Too easily abandoned. She wouldn’t even fight for the arms which had squeezed out all the fear and sorrow from her lungs.

Maybe it was the nuns grasping her head, her shoulders, her arms- laying their palms on her as if that alone could heal the sickness growing inside her that kept her from crying out to him. Thus, she hardly tried to wrest herself from their grip as they ushered her into a room of barred windows and locked doors.

She was talented when it came to committing such small details to memory. But, it was all wasted space. Nothing could be done with such things; and her fixation upon them did her no favors.

A month later, eyes greener than her own were above her.

 _‘...What is wrong with me?’_ she’d asked in her small, hoarse voice.

Urbosa was honest. Wise, always wise. Words came easily to her. Surely she’d know, she’d thought. Yet no words passed her lips. The woman’s hands trembled more than Zelda’s own tiny limbs. Icy water still clung to her, matted her hair across her face. Teeth chattered, but she had no desire to search for flame or fleece to chase away the cold.

All that clacking was enough to drown out the terrible, terrible noise that was silence, after all.

 _‘Oh, Little Bird,’_ the woman had murmured as she’d drawn her close.

Zelda would ask over and over and receive no answer. Urbosa had squeezed her tighter and tighter with every whispered question until she couldn’t breathe another word. It wasn’t enough, though.

Neither the fear nor the sorrow could be squeezed out anymore.

For the first few years, her caretakers had been benevolent, gentle, and sympathetic. But, as their impatience grew, their kindness dwindled- just the same as her father. The rap of rulers against her skin. Curt demands to keep her eyes closed when she prayed. Clicking tongues. 

_‘Never trust a priestess,’_ they’d hiss, _‘Never trust a Sheik.’_

 _‘A Sheik,’_ that’s what they always called the pair of Sheikah she met on the eve of her seventh birthday. 

A teenage girl had a braid that trailed along the ground when she squatted to Zelda’s height. She’d looked up from her upturned dirt in a panic and skittered backwards: trying to cover up the hole she’d been digging like an unruly mutt in the gardens.

 _‘Are you after treasure?’_ the girl crooned, her red eyes so warm and soft that Zelda’s panic had washed away with one blink.

 _‘...Pond,’_ she mumbled.

A head tilted. An inquisitive smile. _‘Pond?’_

_‘F-For… the... frogs.’_

_‘Oh?’_

_‘Please don’t tell,’_ Zelda begged as she shuffled forward on her knees, hands wringing together and smearing mud everywhere.

_‘Of course I won’t, sweetheart. Do you like them?’_

_‘Yes. They’ve got big eyes and they’re_ so _cute,’_ she said, fervent, and the girl looked to melt at the sheer enthusiasm in her voice. Though, when Zelda rattled off her next words, her jaw went slack. _‘They have_ wonderful _stimulative properties. I want a whole cart of little yellow beetles so I can feed them and see how fast they go! Can you imagine if they could jump over Father Gregory’s_ head?’

Before she could respond to that, a shadow swept over Zelda and her nest of brilliant tulips.

_‘I like the way this kid thinks, Impy.’_

A pair of glasses glinting in the sunlight, a devious grin, and a face shaped all too like the older girl in front of her.

 _‘Pleased to meet you, Your Highness,’_ she crowed as the other stood to loom over her as well. _‘The name’s Purah.’_

 _‘Impa,’_ the sweet one said, and Zelda could only blink bright and curious as they both bent down to offer her a hand out of her lonely pit of dirt and destruction.

  


* * *

  


Link’s hand drips water. That patterned fabric is hanging off his wrist: unravelling as he tries to gather it and tug it back into place. Zelda’s eyes follow the movement as her feet splash toward him, purple mist still skirting across the calming surface. A Bokoblin and Lizalfos had been stalking the road along the Wetlands. He made quick work of them as usual- but his sleeve had come undone during the scuffle.

She watches as he takes the bandage-like fabric in his teeth and yanks. Of course, in the middle of the action he stops, noticing her stare. 

“...What?” he asks between grit teeth, the cloth still there in his mouth.

Zelda blinks. “Nothing.”

She continues to stare.

He looks somewhat feral: canines showing and hair entirely messed by the wind tumbling over the flat expanse around them. As usual, her gaze seems to make him self-conscious, and he quickly lets the cloth fall, wrapping it around his arm like a civilized person after sheathing his sword. For extra measure, his movements are faster- hasty as he turns away and trudges off toward their horses. It seems he is eager to escape from her scrutiny. 

Her lips purse. She’s a little disappointed. There was something charming about it... weird as it was. 

The princess trots after him with a question. “That fabric on your forearms. Is it just for fashion?”

“...No, Your-” he stops, biting off the ending of an old habit. She can’t blame him; it’d only been about two days since their talk at the stables. “The Sheikah gave them to me.”

“Oh?”

She’s waiting for more of an explanation. He does not provide one; and Zelda is reminded he’s not one for conversation. Link continues walking- but her own steps slow until she’s merely gazing after him.

Normally she would consider prying, yet she is hesitant. The bare bones of friendship was what they agreed upon- not real companionship. Despite all her plotting and considering, one factor she forgot to include in that grand speech of hers the other night was that he may not even care to be close with her to begin with. She certainly isn’t hated. She knows this, but the loneliness hasn't been chased away like she’d hoped. Thus, she is restless.

Needy, she thinks. She’s needy. It must be tempered to avoid a repeat of the desert. Of Naboris.

“Zelda,” he calls. Blue’s on her, blinking and waiting as his horse nudges its nose against his hair. He hardly seems to notice. “Are you coming-”

The horse nips at him, and he winces. “Ow- _Chocolate-”_

He goes to bicker with the animal, but freezes when she starts sniggering and walking forward.

“Chocolate? Is that his name?”

His face goes blank. She wonders if he’s aware that his absurdly blue tunic only makes it more obvious when he’s blushing.

 _“No,”_ he claims despite being incapable of telling her what the horse’s theoretical _actual_ name is.

It’s hours later as they’re tying their horses into an inn’s stable that Zelda pauses and pokes her head over the stall’s railing.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says, and he stands there holding a saddle, waiting. She can’t help the little smile that worms its way onto her face. “I want to name my horse. What do you think of Parfait?”

The look he gives her is utterly withering and embarrassed. However, she doesn’t miss the words he mutters as his head dips out of view.

“It fits.”

  


* * *

  


Like sandpaper.

Link is… like sandpaper, she thinks.

Rough and coarse and far from gentle; but all his crassness has a way of weathering down the sharp edges in her mind.

The moment she convinced him to ignore all the honorifics and stingy etiquette, his demeanor began to change. She’d seen hints of it in the dining halls, of course, but it was more than she expected, really.

His empty stare had become more of a moody kind of glare. Though, she’s beginning to think it is just the way his face rests. A cat, like Urbosa. Always suspicious of his surroundings until he looks upon a friendly animal or a rich landscape. Then it’s all wide eyes, parted lips, and child-like wonder.

Selfish, she thinks when she remembers his sticky fingers. Unselfish, she swaps when she cracks open her eyes in the night and spies him sneaking extra ingredients for her concoctions into her bag.

So that is why she never seems to run out of safflina?

He doesn’t like attention it seems. Recognition in any form. A phantom- that’s what he wants to be, perhaps.

He’s his best when no one is looking.

It is unfortunate then, that she is always watching. That Hyrule is always watching.

Is it the same for her? Would she be as different as he is when released from the confines of expectations?

A spoon clacks loudly against a plate, and Zelda finally takes in the sight of her contemplative frown in a bowl of soup.

“Dear, are you tired?” her uncle questions from his distant seat across the table.

“Far from it. I was merely thinking about your flags. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the story behind their emblem.”

Something glints in his eye, and he launches into a tale regarding the slaying of a great bird-like monster terrorizing the Akkalan wilds centuries ago.

Fifteen years older than her father, he’s a man who prefers to dwell in the past, now too aged to indulge in dangerous new adventures himself. He likes talking as a result, and knowing what she does now about her mother, Zelda can imagine the two of them got along quite well when she came to visit the fort.

“No one has seen one for many years... though I think we all know better than to believe beasts of that calibre are so easily wiped out.”

“I have a hard time believing beasts of that calibre are so easily _missed,_ either.”

He grins, chuckling. “We are of the same mind. There are a few records that claim they left for the seas. Goddess knows where; perhaps they’ve flown off to be someone else’s problem. Regardless, it’s better they stay away. After all, those monsters were only conquered thanks to the proxy of the age-”

The man all but chokes on his roasted duck. The words had clearly sprung out of their own accord, and he’s awfully quick to explain them away.

 _“-given_ that you have no combative training, I mean. Your mother was quite the swordswoman, but not many in history have pursued that particular brand of discipline, as you must know-”

“I know what you meant,” Zelda half-interrupts. Rough edges there. Bordering curt.

Of course most desendents didn’t use weapons. As if a sharp object has ever been needed for proxy women who could disintegrate Moblins with the flick of their wrist.

The candle-lit chandeliers above are dim enough it’s hard to read the full scope of his reaction to her tone, but Zelda capitalizes on the opportunity his blundering and the topic itself presents before the silence can curdle the air.

“You know, it’s very fortuitous! The request I spoke of actually has to do with such disciplines... I noticed on the way in that you’ve received quite a vast shipment of harpoons. Would you happen to have a few extra?” She leans in, babbling on and leaving him with no time to recover or consider, “They’re exactly what Lady Impa requested. I hope it wouldn’t be too much to ask that we take the opportunity to visit the ward below, as well? Perhaps in the morning? I’ve developed a keen interest in such things as of late, and after speaking with you, I would love it if you could teach me more.”

The badges of honor on his breast glimmer when he smiles, buttered up.

“Not at all, my dear. I’m ecstatic to see you embracing more… _traditional_ methods of defense.”

Her head cocks serenely despite the bubble of poison in her lungs. Blissfully unaware, he reaches for a goblet, drinks from it, and she slips one of the many gilded knives on that table into her boot the moment it cuts off his view of her.

  


* * *

  


He’s staring right through her.

Zelda stands thirty feet away at the end of Eldin Bridge with a growing knot of worry in her stomach that, predictably, still has everything to do with the letters she’s been sending while he was asleep for the past six weeks.

She’d make no progress in Rudania, she’d already known the moment they stepped foot on this mountain. But, after hearing of the Deku Tree’s words, it occurred to her that, for once, she could optimize the productivity of all her wandering.

Brute force.

It worked for Link.

The temples of Zobodon Highlands may be able to provide exactly such brute force.

That first night they’d arrived on Death Mountain, she’d laid awake, looked from the roof to his peaceful face, then to the Sword he doesn’t realize he cradles like a stuffed animal when he sleeps, and gotten that horrid idea planted in her head which she now fears he might’ve caught wind of.

Why else would he be wandering around looking like he’s trying to keep something from leaping out of his throat?

Zelda rolls her lips.

“Link?” she tries, timid. His eyes snap to hers, his face schooled with that flawless mask Impa had helped him to mold. Her heart pounds over the rush of lava beneath her feet. “How about that? Leaving tomorrow? I… don’t believe I’m making progress with my prayers in Rudania.”

He shrugs without protest. 

He doesn’t know.

The revelation just about makes her sigh with relief. The next revelation that there’s something else that’s left him frowning like a constipated toad and smashing pots in the street nearly makes her gasp with horror.

Whatever it is, it’s not her business. Thus, Zelda bites down her disobedient tongue, crams away her fearful curiosity, and marches onward to a Beast blotting out the sun.

Naturally and predictably, she finds an indirect manner to be nosy. Daruk practically tears off the moment she sidles up to him and suggests Link may not be in the best of spirits. 

Thus, she is left alone in the pit of a belly lit up only by the sparse threads of light which leap in through open doors. So high upon the mountain, Zelda gazes out a balcony and to the undulating maze of peaks. Warmth in the wind, ever rising from the rivers of flame below.

Boiling and restless.

She thinks the mountains suit her.

When Zelda finally looks away and readies herself to close off any source of light for her prayers, her breath catches.

Purah’s up early.

She’s leaning against a wall of slate, arms crossed and tucked into the shadows. 

Sounds echo so easily off these perfectly etched walls, and yet she hadn’t even heard the clack of Purah’s heels. That and the flat look on her face make the irrational thought that she’s Impa in disguise pop into her head. 

Sometimes Zelda forgets Purah had the same training as her sister, long ago. Rusted and faded with disuse, though it appears there are some skills that come too naturally to be forgotten.

“Good morning,” Zelda is the first to speak. 

“Good morning, ‘Highness.”

 _‘Highness’._ She hasn’t heard that particular term of endearment in well over a year- given that she hasn’t been alone with Purah for that long. It’s disappointing: hearing it used in such a sour tone.

“...Is something the matter?”

The woman lifts up her glasses and outright changes the subject. 

“Today’s your last day.”

A statement, not a question.

“We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” she specifies slowly.

Lips mash together before Purah pushes off her wall, stalking over to stare holes into Zelda’s forehead.

“You’re really gonna do it?” she asks just when she begins to squirm under her scrutiny.

“Unless the Goddess deigns to acknowledge that I exist, then yes.”

It’s a rueful statement she wouldn’t dare say in front of anyone other than Purah. She’s the only person she’s ever met who has quite the same, unspoken distaste for that deity, after all. Zelda expects her to crack something in return, yet what comes out of her is a hushed plea:

“Don’t.”

“...You’ve known about this for weeks,” she murmurs after a long silence.

Purah huffs and looks away. “I have,” she agrees, “and I’ve hated it for weeks.”

“I already have everything together, I can’t back out now.”

“Nobody is forcing you to do this.”

“Exactly. This is my choice, Purah.”

“It’s crazy.”

Something bristles under her skin. Thorns.

“It’s not.”

“It _is,_ ‘Highness,” Purah shoots back, bending to tower over her. “What’s the success rate of these trials? _Shoddy_ at best. Only a complete moron would put stock in them.”

Tactful as an ox, this woman; logic may as well be a blunt instrument in her hands.

“Your _point?”_

Eyes roll, and she paces a circle around Zelda. “My point is that it’s dangerous in more ways than one. You know what would happen if the priestesses heard about it. Do you really think that fallout is worth it with chances that low?”

She spins to keep track of her, teeth gnashing and heat rising in her core. _“That_ is why I have Impa and Mipha’s assistance.”

Purah comes to a halt, arms folding tighter over her chest. “Is it worth Impa’s inheritance, _too?_ You know she’ll lose everything if she gets caught endorsing this.”

“She’s not a child, she could have easily refused.”

Purah just scowls at that. “Impa’s a glorified people pleaser. I guarantee she’s just trying to make sure you don’t rock the waters.”

Zelda’s hands flex, trying to form fists she won’t allow. Though, the fevered words tumbling out of her are a different story, “This is more important than politics. _Impa_ understands that. What will we do if the Calamity appears tomorrow morning and I have no powers? We’re not ready yet!”

The most derisive scoff she’s ever heard comes out of Purah’s mouth. “Oh, right, the _Calamity._ The thing nobody has any proof exists. And here I thought it was only about His Majesty’s precious approval! Honestly, I don’t know which is more _ridiculous.”_

Zelda erupts like a volcano.

 _“Ten years!_ Ten years and I have _nothing!_ You don’t know anything- _you_ got to abdicate your inheritance as High Priestess and study these machines on a whim!”

Her voice ricochets off the walls, pitched and coarser than the thrum of a Guardian’s engine.

“I’ve spent my entire life being told we’re all going to perish if I don’t succeed while my father has _dangled_ my happiness on a thread in front of me for a decade, scorning me in front of half the country every time I failed to reach it!” She steps forward, something buried deep and foul clawing its way to the surface. “I’m fighting to have a _future!_ How _dare_ you tell me any of this is ridiculous!”

Her words cut off as she sucks in both her composure and a lungful of torrid air. Purah merely stands, her face looking adrift somewhere in an unknowable sea. The woman knows her as well as she knows her own sister, yet she’s staring at her like she really doesn’t know a thing. It cuts Zelda to pieces, and shame floods into her being.

No one was supposed to know this side of her.

“Trials,” Zelda whispers, senseless. “Tests. If one thing doesn’t work, you pivot. _You,_ taught me that.”

Her mentor’s expression falls beneath a veil, but not fast enough to hide the hurt.

“...Hylia,” she says, hollow, “I hate the way you think.”

A second later and Purah’s heels are clicking off into the shadows. Zelda can only stay right where she is, rotting away as wind carries the putrid scent of ash and brimstone into her lonely pit.

  


* * *

  


She doesn’t get any praying done that day. Zelda sat beneath Rudania’s humming terminal, knees to her chest and face buried away from the harsh sunlight.

It’s gotten harder to control it over the years: the rage and sorrow that comes with a life spent wallowing in disillusionment. She has a worse temper now than when she was a child, and that regression is nearly as embarrassing as her spiritual ineptitude. It’s even more embarrassing that Purah is now perfectly aware of the level of envy she feels toward each and every one of the researchers in this mountain.

It’s only when the pangs of hunger become unbearable that Zelda lifts her face. The great expanse is bathed in a ruddy, ash-swept hue. Hints of violet ebbing it all away. Sunset. She’s wasted an entire day riding a train of thought that went in circles, yet she can’t quite muster the wherewithal to care.

She scans the courtyard, and the reality that she hasn’t seen a certain blue phantom in thirteen hours knocks her in the head.

Link should have picked her up hours ago.

“Mind your business, will you?” she mutters to herself the moment curiosity tries to pry its ugly face through the door.

Stiff limbs. She stands and tries to shake out both the kinks and the nagging fact that this is the longest they’ve been apart since the desert. Half a day and she’s already feeling lonely? That bodes well for her upcoming trip.

But, all things considered, separation may be the best thing for her. Not a week ago, it’d dawned on her that what was once a frivolous crush had become something significantly more frightening.

It’d been humming, of all things.

The sound had woken her up after spending a night in the Sheikahs’ camp. She’d stood at the mouth of her tent, hair still messy and her vision blurry as she squinted to a boy squatting in front of a cooking pot. His chin was tucked in his hand as a ladle waved around like a conductor’s wand in the other. A content look. Some nonsensical melody filling the ravine.

As expected, Link had noticed her loitering soon enough. His head tilted toward her, smiling in a teasing manner at her half-drunken swaying.

_‘Want some soup?’_

She’d nodded reflexively and was endlessly grateful that he went right back to his brewing. It’d given her the few seconds she needed to recover from the sudden epiphany that she’d be perfectly happy to wake up to the sound of his voice every day for the rest of her life, after all.

Zelda lifts her hands and smacks the sides of her face. The sting dispels the haze in her mind just in time for her to hear a familiar set of footsteps. Her palms are still squishing her cheeks when she whirls around, blurting:

_“Prruh?”_

“Hi, chipmunk,” the woman doesn’t miss a beat.

Hands lower almost instantly, though there’s not much she can do about the palm-shaped marks there. Zelda looks on, doe-eyed and frowning. Purah’s arms are behind her back, and she can’t help but suspect she’s hiding another grievance there.

The scientist shifts from one foot to the other.

“...I tried cookin’,” she eventually says. “It didn’t pan out, so I stole some of Link’s leftovers.”

A bag sweeps out from behind her back. True to her word, it’s the few scraps of food he was able to salvage after cooking a meal for half the camp two nights ago. A shame. Link had been thoroughly convinced he’d hidden it well enough this time.

It might’ve been fair, considering he also had a habit of stealing whatever edible food he caught Sheikah making. 

Purah takes in Zelda’s dubious gaze with a clicking tongue. “Finders keepers.”

Her stomach pinches in on itself, growling, and it’s Purah’s turn to give her a dubious eyebrow. 

“...Fair enough,” she concedes in a grumble.

Her fellow thief grins.

Minutes later, Purah sits on a crate, legs stretched out and toes idly tilting back and forth. Zelda is shamelessly licking her fingers when the woman finally speaks.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Her eyes fall to the discarded tableware at her knees. “...I know.”

The terminal pulses at her back. Her shadow easing in and out of existence. She lifts her head after a moment, smiling through the hurt that seems to come and go just as steadily.

“Thank you for caring.”

“I’m sorry,” is her apologetic mumble. “...I was… uhh... insensitive.”

“We both are and were.” There’s a long exhale, and a smile that really isn’t one at all. “It’s funny, actually... I hate the way I think, too.”

For once, the woman has no words.

Purah doesn’t have plans to argue further. The futility of it is plain as day, and, whether she admits it or not, Zelda is certain she can see the logic in her decision. 

And, whether Zelda admits it or not, with or without logic, it needs to be done.

The mountain shudders. They both peer at the swaths of indigo pouring from above and drowning out the orange-tinted horizon. No rays of light touch the valleys now; the sun has drifted too low into the West to be seen above those jagged ridges, even from their daunting height.

“It’s gettin’ late,” Purah muses, yawning wide as a cat. “We should get going.”

“Where is Link?”

“Dunno. Some of my goons told me he’s with Daruk making a racket South of the city. Who knows what they’re up to.” Her lip curls. “If they know what’s good for them they’ll quiet down before I go to bed.”

Underlying threats of violence aside, Zelda smiles, pleased to see her usual self returning. All that seriousness is better suited to Impa, isn’t it? But, right when she thinks it’s gone, the sobriety returns.

Red eyes bore into her, unblinking.

“You’re not gonna tell ‘im, ‘Highness?”

Zelda goes about cleaning up their mess. “Of course not. It’s his job to make sure I don’t get a scratch on me. It’d be a detriment to the whole process… besides, him of all people… Why would I ever want him to know?”

For now, at least; there’s only so much wool she can pull over his eyes.

“...Good luck,” Purah says, and that is the last either of them speaks that night.

  


* * *

  


There’s not a hint of the previous day’s tension in Link’s body.

Zelda sits on the edge of her bed, hunched over and doing nothing more than staring down at his sleeping face. Despite the storm she knows is ready and waiting to swallow her whole at the base of this mountain, she can’t help but smile.

Sending Daruk might’ve been a good choice. She can only hope sending him off with Mipha will be just as right. If anyone can bear the torch that is ensuring all his bruises and cuts are cared for in her absence, it’s her.

The bed creaks when she leans forward, her arm extending, reaching over the space between them so that her fingers can brush hair from his face. Careful and light so as not to wake him.

Him, of all people.

She wishes he’d never know.

Breathing deep, Zelda’s touch slips away, and she stands to prepare herself for what she suspects will be the longest month of her life.

  
  



End file.
